When I walk into my bedroom at night, close the door and absorb the silence, I feel enveloped in the positive space of solitude. The world is at bay, the television a muffled, distant drone. I float through currents of cool air, as the ceiling fan blades quietly whir, carrying me to the king-sized expanse of crisp sheets and soft pillows. I give prayerful thanks for the peace and comfort of my home, and this sanctuary for sleep. Most nights, the whispering palm fronds sway, or even whip, in the ocean breezes outside my windows. Some nights, the glow of my Nook illuminates my face, while the words I read (hopefully!) are illuminating my mind; or at least lulling me into the softness of sleep. Other nights, the dark silence is all I crave, lying there with my thoughts soaring, crashing, sparking odd connections and finally drifting into sleepy peacefulness. Solitude is both a necessity and a pleasure, a thing I occasionally seek and sometimes stumble upon, but always relish.